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“I must be in bad shape if I have career criminals asking after my welfare.” “Don’t get too excited.” Jack tried to sound bored. “It’s just that it would be a bloody inconvenience for the Earl of Rutland’s son to die in my office.” Those blue eyes were now plainly shining with amusement. “I’ll endeavor to keep body and soul together until I reach the street.”
“Sometimes I think fashion magazines are run by revolutionaries just to make the aristocracy look stupid.”
The sight of all those pointless urns and gilded picture frames almost made him nostalgic for the days of the guillotine—even
Me too, buddy
if I blackmailed you for happening to prefer men, you could blackmail me right back. Did you somehow not notice that I nearly fucked you against a building on Piccadilly the other night?”
Honor was a luxury item, like hair pomade and snuff. Its only purpose was to show the world that you could afford to be impractical, that you had enough money to behave in a way that was compatible with some ludicrous code instead of acting out of self-preservation like the rest of humanity. Jack
The richer the man, the more likely it was that he had gone to a school whose only purpose was to introduce him to other rich lads and make all of them unfit for the company of anyone but themselves.
Jack’s voice was somewhere between a grumble and a whisper. He looked like a supplicant and sounded like a sinner. “I
The aristocracy and gentry did whatever they could to keep power and money to themselves. You were either Quality or you were not, and if you weren’t, it hardly mattered whether you were a surgeon or a street sweeper.
The existence of that gap between servant and master made the entire structure unsteady. It implied a fluidity that those at the top of the heap didn’t like to think about. Worse, it suggested that the difference between the aristocracy and those who emptied their chamber pots wasn’t as clear cut as they might prefer.
Never had Jack tied a cravat more resentfully and with more confusion than he did that day.
Oliver had an utterly misguided faith that anything approaching justice could be carried out in a world where one group of people—men like Oliver himself—had most of the money and influence.
All these secret touches were a sort of code, Jack thought. Like ships communicating by semaphore. Jesus, he must be soft in the head. These touches were no code, they were a message written in invisible ink, and if you held it over a lamp you’d reveal the words Jack Turner is an idiot.
“You stubborn, ignorant bastard.” He was speaking through gritted teeth. “I love you. I don’t want you to die for me. I don’t want you to be hurt at all. I want you to be safe, with me. Why is that so hard to understand? What if you had died tonight? What the hell would I have done with myself once I had figured out that you did it for me?” Jack forced himself to look directly at Oliver. “Then you would have known that you were loved in return.”
Maybe ask her to marry me. It’s not every woman who contemplates shooting an aristocrat. I’ve had the urge myself. Surely that’s enough to build a life on.”
Nobody had been more surprised than Jack to discover that when he was happy, he wanted to make others happy. What a soggy lot of rubbish, but there you had it.
